After the Fact
by MisplacedHyperQuill
Summary: Set after the end of The Six Thatchers (so major spoilers), and follows snippets of the character's lives after the fact. Just something I had to put down on paper after the episodes had my mind in flurry after watching. Conflicted John and Sherlock, and kinda explicit, kinda implicit Sherlolly- depends how you look at it. Read and Review!


Molly watched the figure retreat around the corner, dropping her finger from the blinds moments later. The child cooed against the crook of her neck, still happily oblivious to the unsettling, sudden change to her entire world. _Empathy is a skill that differentiates a good doctor from a great one_ , a professor once told Molly. She wished she'd never acquired it as she forced back tears and the growing lump in her throat.

…

The black cab pulled up obediently next to the waiting detective. Sherlock opened the door and entered the taxi, stating the address. As an afterthought, he instead exited the vehicle, much to the driver's vocally announced annoyance. Fists balled in the pockets of his Belstaff, he braced the winter cold and walked, simultaneously along the London street and through his Palace, his mind replaying Molly's harsh words.

John's words.

 _Anyone but you_.

…

The tinkling text tone startled the two occupants in the room. Upon seeing the name flash on the screen, all previous anger and hatred seemed to deflate out of the doctor. "Uh, thank you Molly," John said, never meeting her eye "for doing that. I know it must be… _hard_ …for you."

"I can't do that to him again, John." At those words, John's fist balled around his phone. He slowly gazed at his friend and trusted companion- the godmother of his child.

"Rosie is _my_ daughter. If I don't want _him_ to ever see-"

"I respect that John," Molly interjected hastily, her free hand up in surrender despite singlehandedly cradling the baby and all the equipment that followed. "But you can't make me say such hurtful things. He's my friend as well."

John refused to answer, because he knew all he would do was lash out, and he didn't want the child to cry. He heard Molly quietly pad up to him so he could kiss his daughter goodbye. He did so, and she left, reminding him to call her if he needed anything, and that Mrs H would be with her, helping her baby proof her home temporarily, if he wanted company while she was at work. There was only so much help the old woman could do- everyone knew it was so that John could visit his mother-like figure without having to set foot in that godforsaken building.

As soon as the door clicked shut, John unballed his fist, and unlocked his phone. Noticing the time, he made a quick calculation.

12 days, 13 hours and approximately 20 minutes since Mary's death.

.oOo.

 _Mind the gap between the train and the platform._

Wise, and incredibly underrated advice, John realised as he attempted to shake off the dull pain in his ankle as he made is way out of the station. He placed his phone into his pocket- it wouldn't do for it to cause another accident, now would it?

The bus pulled up just as he reached the bus stop. Opting to stand once he entered, he took his place in the empty stroller area and gazed out of the window, just as his phone beeped. He smiled at the text picture of his Harry and Rosie. After sending a quick reply, he replaced his phone in his pocket. It wouldn't have been fair on Molly to care for the child while helping Mrs Hudson move back into her flat after almost two weeks with the pathologist. _Besides,_ he thought bitterly, _she's not her child_.

John was a mess- he knew that very well. He had attempted to get back to normal- or as normal as the circumstances allowed- as soon as possible. He just needed to get away from all reminders for awhile.

He just needed a distraction.

 _And your daughter needs her father_.

His eyes landed on a stray newspaper on the floor. Page eight, he read. On it was a little panel- a mini article dedicated to the latest solved case by the Scotland Yard. Sneering, the veteran nudged it away with his shoe. Mrs Hudson, Harry, Molly- everyone in his small circle, really- had more or less chastised him for the way he'd cut the bastard out of his life. _He's your best friend_ , they'd said, _he needs you as much as you need him_. John let out a short, sarcastic laugh that garnered the attention of the little old lady sitting on the priority seat with her groceries and little dog. He looked away. How could he call someone so conceited and self-centered a companion, let alone _best friend_? John made a stupid choice years ago, and because of that, the mother of his baby girl was now dead. Besides, John didn't need Sherlock, he never did, he-

The bus jerked to a halt, shaking John from his reverie. Exiting through the middle doors, he looked around before locking his gaze. There she sat, in her usual spot, her bright eyes shining to match the grin she wore upon noticing him.

"Hiya," she greeted, in that quirky accent. As he walked towards her, she stood up and came out from under the shade of the stop. Her hair glinted auburn in the dim winter sunlight. "So, where would you like to go today?" John tilted his head in thought, raising an arm for her to take. When she did, they began their walk down the street.

"Anywhere you'd like, Ellie." he answered.

He just needed a distraction.

…

 _Tick. Tick._

 _Tick. Tick._

 _Tick. Tick._

Sherlock breathed in a controlled breath as he tried to shake his mind away from the constant _ticking_ of that blasted new clock that Mrs H had put up in an attempt to hide the bullet holes on the wall. The detective found he hated change more than usual- if he was sentimental, he would admit that he missed the gurgling, cooing and wailing the messy, chubby baby made. His eyes wandered over to the mantelpiece, where a framed photograph of the odd little family of four (plus the two godmothers), now broken apart, stood (in the case of Rosie, carried) smiling in an atrociously plastic fashion.

 _"Oh come now, Sherlock, it's not that bad! We look quite good- especially me, as a new mother."_

The detective startled, having not given permission to his mind to access any of his memories.

 _"Yeah, Sherlock." his best friend said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "It's a good way to keep memories. We all get old and forget anyway."_

 _"You underestimate me, John."_

 _The doctor in question rolled his eyes and took his hand away, turning around to face his wife, who was cradling the little girl in her arms._

 _"You don't mind if we leave a few toys around, do you Sherlock? Just a bear or two, and maybe some clothes and diapers for her to change into?"_

 _Sherlock knew that by 'a few' his home was soon going to become a baby-proof play pen for the little tot. In a previous life, he wouldn't have entertained the idea of such a situation, let alone consider it. Now, as he glanced, seemingly nonchalantly at the new piece of decoration on the mantlepiece, right next to his beloved skull, he couldn't imagine life any different._

 _Well, he could, but didn't have, or want, to._

 _"Yes, of course. Anything to stop the bag of flesh from screaming every hour."_

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the picture and stood up abruptly and strode over and grabbed the picture roughly. Deciding against slamming it down on and basking in the sound of shattered glass and metaphorically broken memories, the detective took to gently placing it back where it was, but turned around so that the wall could look on that deceiving photograph instead of him.

At that, he heard the front door open, and the bustle of footsteps and female voices. When all went quiet with the shut of a door, he walked over to his own front door, and timed the sound of stairs creaking with Molly's inevitable entrance. He opened the door just as she raised her hand to knock, rolling her eyes at her mildly surprise look.

"Come now, Molly, haven't you figured out the extent of my psychic ability just yet?"

…

Molly squinted, trying to cover her ears with her shoulders as she fiddled with the old, whistling kettle. If she was being honest, she was certain that archaic contraption was going to fall apart in her hand. Quickly, she poured water into the two cups- a black tea with three sugars for her, black coffee with two sugars for the detective. She was debating bringing out a bottle of wine as well, for she wasn't sure how to handle the man in the other room, seeing as he was currently fixated with the red balloon weighted across him on the other arm chair.

She set the drinks down on the coffee table and moved towards him. "Sherlock? Your coffee's ready."

His back straight, elbows on the armrests and fingers steepled under his chin, the man's eyes never wavered from what Molly could see was a crude face drawn on the balloon with red marker. She sighed, wrapping her head around how the coping mechanisms of such a highly functioning human related to the ones her five year old nephew used when his pet dog ran away.

"I'm going to prepare you a meal, Sherlock, with enough leftovers for the next few days, okay?"

Taking the lack of a reply as an affirmative, Molly began to busy herself in the kitchen, cooking a bit of spaghetti and tomato sauce with chicken to survive a week long apocalypse. An hour later, she was done plating his meal and packing the rest. Upon opening the fridge and noticing the array of body parts, she groaned.

The sun had gone down by the time the pathologist finished rearranging the fridge the best she could, and clearing up the kitchen and bits of the living room not affected by his 'work'. "Try to eat, yeah Sherlock? If you get bored, I'm a text away and we can go grab lunch or something, or just talk or-" she trailed away. Despite her grown confidence over the years, she'd never quite shaken off her rambling habit. She turned around, heading towards the door.

"How is she?" Molly started at the unexpected response. She smiled sadly, her chest tightening with pity.

"She's good, Sherlock. As happy as a clueless baby can be." The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a hint of what Molly was certain was a cascade of emotion behind is almost perfect mask. She hated having to honour John's harsh order; one didn't have to be a genius detective to see how much Sherlock missed, not only John and Mary, but little Rosamund as well. "It's going to be okay, Sherlock. I know it will be." She said, immediately berating herself for her lack of thought and runaway mouth.

"Do you actually think so?" Sherlock turned to her, his face stoic, but still hinting tauntingly at a raw vulnerability that maybe all the romance novels she read were helping her see. She quickly walked towards him and knelt beside his chair.

"I really do, Sherlock." she answered, tentatively placing a hand on his upper arm. He nodded slowly and turned back to face the balloon.

Molly got back onto her feet. As an afterthought, she leaned down and placed a quick, chaste kiss on the side of his temple. Giving his arm one last squeeze, she pulled away and began to walk to the door.

"I have some extra feet, if you're still looking for some." she called as her final greeting, before shutting the door behind her and heading home.

…

Mrs Hudson gasped at Mary's final words, placing her hand over her heart in an attempt to reduce her blood pressure. "Oh Sherlock," she begged "do stop replaying that, it'll do you no good!"

Instead, the detective sat, playing those terribly harsh words again and again. Mrs Hudson bustled about trying to keep busy as she worried for the young man sitting at his desk. The poor thing, having to go through so much. Oh how she wished he could find a way to just settled down, peacefully, happy and content- preferably with a nice girl, like that Molly. Making her way to the kitchen, she successfully prepared a cup of tea for Sherlock without any biological surprises, but was put off the thought of toast and jam when she opened the fridge to find severed testicles sitting in the middle compartment. He was so engrossed in the video, he completely ignored her shrill shrieks of surprise and disgust.

She had just set down the tea in front of him when he abruptly shoved his chair back and stood up with a shout. Mrs Hudson gasped and held her head. She was going to need a good glass of red tonight if she was going to get a good's night sleep.

"Mrs Hudson, I know what to do!" he exclaimed like a child winning a prize.

"Do about what?" she asked feebly, absolutely unclear of the situation. Ignoring her, he began to pace around the room, no doubt formulating a plan.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm going to be out on a little trip for a few weeks. I should be back soon enough. You should stay with your sister, or Molly if you don't want to be here alone."

He quickly ushered her out of the room to plan in peace. Mrs Hudson glared at the shut door before huffing and making her way down the stairs.

"Definitely getting far to old for this." She complained. The stairs creaked sympathetically under her in response.

Mrs Hudson sat down on her bed in her cosy flat. There really was no place like home, she thought, breathing in the familiar floral smell of her diffuser. Taking the calendar of her bed, she ticked of the end of the day. Her finger moved over the squares, counting backwards.

Her heart went out for the men she cared for like sons- one now thumping around above her (angrily or not, she didn't want to think about), and the other in a state of radio silence, save some odd texts to Molly. Just over three weeks since the passing.

Three weeks out of an eternity for those poor boys.

.oOo.

"A sandwich, maybe? John, you honestly look so tired, let me do something to help!" Molly insisted, looking down at the man on the couch.

"I'd actually love that, Molls, but, um, I don't think you'll find anything useful in the fridge."

"Have u been eating takeaway this whole time?" Molly asked, exasperated. The man in front of her turned red, looking away sheepishly.

"I haven't been on top of the groceries, I'll admit. Usually Mary and I…did it together." Molly sighed, and put on a smile, her heart going out to the man.

"Don't worry about it, yeah? I'll make you a list and call in Sainsbury's for an order, okay?"

"Thank you, Molly."

"Also, John?" Molly shifted on her feet, unsure how to word the next question "When was the last time you took a shower?"

"Oh, um, just-" his eyes widened "- about a week ago? Right, I-I'll get on that. Sorry it's just that Mary would remind me too usually- after cases and things." Molly laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Just then, a text tone sounded. John quickly took out his phone, his eyes brightening somewhat as a small smile formed on his lips, to Molly's surprise. "Anyone interesting?" she asked, to which John looked to her. The baby wailed in the other room. "I've got it, don't worry." She said "You go shower." John shot her a grateful look and placed his phone on the table before leaving the room.

She was never one to invade privacy, but the instant light on John's face made the curious Molly reach out for the still unlocked phone on the table.

"What?" she murmured to herself. Rosie's wail turned into a full blown screech.

"Molly, are you sure you're alright there?"

"Yes! I've got it John, don't worry!" she hastily replied. She scrolled up the time stamps as fast as she could, her eyes catching glimpses of 'x's and ':*"- _what was going on_? Dread filled her as the she reached the end of the large number of conversations dating up to about three weeks prior- surely if he'd met her right after Mary's death, she could write it off as a grieving man's form of a rebound or distraction. Her stomach fell when she realised that she was only just halfway off the first message. She carried on scrolling, all the way to the top, feeling a little sick when she saw the earliest timestamp dating months ago, and worse yet, that the doctor had started the conversation.

Not really knowing what to do, she placed the phone on back on the table, careful not to exit the message app and went to care for the still crying child.

"So, who was that that brought a smile on your face. I haven't seen a genuine one from you in awhile." Molly probed. The doctor visibly tensed.

"Uh, no one really, just-"

"Was it Harry? How is she?" Molly felt mean, after all, John was greiving. However, how much was he really? Molly pushed away that thought away almost immediately, feeling worse for jumping to conclusions. Surely, he had a good explanation for this.

"She's fine, she's good." he said "But, um, no- it wasn't her. That was someone else."

"Oh, that's nice. An old friend?" The pathologist wasn't a detective for a few reasons- one of them being that she hated being this invasive.

"Not really no."  
"Oh, right. It's a secret then?"

"No, actually I met her awhile ago. On a bus, and we uh, we hit it off."

Molly could see that her fears were slowly getting confirmed, but again, surely he had a good reason behind all this, and she was just being paranoid. Perhaps she was a therapist of some sort, or-

"That's really great!" she exclaimed, slightly too loudly, in an attempt to shake of her own thoughts and sound enthusiastic. There were reasons why she wasn't an award winning actress either.

"What, really?" The man in front of her looked as bewildered as Molly felt at that point.

"Yeah- honestly John, it might be good for you. I mean, you've not really spoken to us much-" he visibly flinched "- and that's okay, because you might just associate us with her and you need to get away, so it's good that you're finding other ways to be happier." John looked slightly more relieved.

"So when did you two meet?" John cleared his throat.

"Uh, on a bus." He was obviously evading the question.

"Yeah you said earlier," she pressed "but _when_?"

 _Tell the truth, John_.

"A few days after Mary-" he choked off. Wether it was because the thought of Mary's death consumed him, or if he didn't have the heart to finish the lie, both, or some other reason, Molly couldn't tell.

"Oh. Of course." Molly answered curtly. "I-I should get going." she said, picking up her bag. John's eyes widened, possibly realising he'd been caught out on a lie.

"Molly wait-" she turned around to face him "-I'm sorry I haven't been in touch lately. It's true I just can't not associate all of you with her and I could barely look at Rosie without being reminded of her, but I've missed her so much, and all of you too." Molly clenched her jaw.

"You're a good man, John, I believe that. Whatever it is you're doing it, with her, with Rosie, with Sherlock-"

"Please don't mention his name."

"He's a big part of your life John, and you can't run away from that. Just hear me out." she replied raising her hands in quiet surrender. "Whatever it is you're doing- you're a grown man and can make your own decisions. But take Mary into account- she saw the best in you out of all of us, and she loved you almost as much as well- only Sherlock is a valid contender on those fronts. They both still love you and see so much in you. Please don't do anything that would disappoint them."

"I'm not here to _appease_ Sherlock. His arrogance is the reason my wife is _dead._ If you're going to keep saying things like this please do as you said and leave."

"You know I'm a call away if you want to talk. Maybe we can meet for lunch next week." Molly gave a weak smile before seeing herself out.

…

Sherlock stood outside the flat for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. It was unlike him, but this entire situation was completely out of his comfort zone anyway- he could give himself a break for once. He gazed at the dark wooden door, pursing his lips. He hadn't been here since he'd left England on his exile- after all, there was no need to anymore. Finally, he raised his hand and pressed on the bell firmly. He heard thumps and the hurried footsteps from within after the sound of the bell. The door swung open, revealing a surprised, lightly flustered Molly.

"Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"Oh, hello Sherlock. No, no, it's quite alright." They stood facing each other awkwardly for a few seconds before Molly collected her thoughts "Oh, of course, sorry- would you like to come in?"

The detective followed her through the flat, paying half a mind to her excuse of the smell of food in the air due to her cooking and the mess from cleaning up earlier. Her flat remained largely the same as the last time, though a few small changes had come to pass. The repaint brightened up the small area somewhat, along with the few furniture replacements she'd made after her promotion at work.

"Coffee?"

"No thank you. I won't be here for long."

Molly turned, her head tilted to the right in a telltale sign of her curiousity. "If you're here to see Rosie," she said carefully "I'm afraid I gave her back to John a week or so ago."

"Yes the lightening of your eyebags and the overall fresher look indicates you've been sleeping and showering more." He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch up at the roll of her eyes.

"Thanks for that. What brings you here anyway?" she asked, leading them to the sitting room.

He sat down on an armchair that he'd taken to be his in the months he'd spent using her flat as a hideout way back when. Sherlock was glad she hadn't the heart to change it. It was quite old, and one of the few things she hadn't replaced in this room, for sentimental reasons of course. He watched as she sat on the couch next to him, some heat rising to her cheeks. Obviously, she was involuntarily remembering _certain_ times she'd spent with him on that chair. He smirked lewdly, but chose not to comment. Molly cleared her throat.

"Right, I've just come to drop something off." he said quickly, reaching into his coat. His fingers gripped soft fabric.

 _The girl wouldn't stop crying, and he was trying to work on his case. The importance- not difficulty, nothing was ever difficult- of the case had required both John and Mary to spend the night in 221B. Both had since retired to John's old room, but Rosie remained in her spare cot in the living room, where Sherlock promised to keep an eye on her. Mrs H was with her sister, and Molly on call at the hospital._

 _Checking the time, Sherlock came to the conclusion it was time for the child's nightly feed. He padded over to her parents' room, but stalled before knocking. No way John would get up- he slept like a log after tiring days out on the field, and Mary had been having a tough few sleepless nights with the child since her father was out at work. He hesitated, and looked to the direction of the wailing. The crescendo was slowly peaking, and would soon enough wake the mother up anyway._

 _Hastily, he mixed the spare formula milk John used when Mary was not around in the correct amounts he'd seen used before and the top over it after cleaning the teat. He covered the distance between him and the cot and again hesitated. Rosie quietened a bit upon noticing a looming figure, but soon enough begin to start up upon still not receiving her feed._

 _He could do this in theory- after all he'd observed Mary do this countless times. Steeling himself, he grabbed the towel on the sofa and picked the child up in his arms, before sinking into his seat._

 _It took him a minute to concede to the fact that this child was too distracted, too grabby (a messy ball of limbs, flesh and screeches as he'd put it) to latch onto the teat. Looking around the room, he found the bright pink teddy bear Mary detested because it was 'far too blinding for a child' on the sofa, previously covered by the towel. Reaching over with a long limb, he grabbed it and dangled it over the child, spilling some milk on his silk robe in the process._

 _The wailing momentarily ceased to cooing, and the baby grabbed onto it and yanked at a pink leg. Sherlock let it slip from his hands and once again tried with the teat. Within a few moments, the baby was happily suckling away, her wandering gaze shifting from her new favourite toy and the hair in question. The odd pair sat like that for minutes and minutes, until the last drop had been suckled. Sherlock put the bottle away and rearranged the baby on his lap so that she could look up at him, and him down on her. Instead of talking at it like he usually did (she'd become his new skull, since she smashed the last one to pieces, to his horror), but instead watched her, observing the little human his best friend and his other friend made._

 _Once it was time, he got up and placed the towel over his shoulder after removing his robe. Preparing for the worst. he placed the baby against his chest, mouth over the shoulder, and began patting its back the way he'd seen Mary do. The baby cooed. And then there was a sharp pain on the side of his head. Sherlock swore, grasping the baby's hand lightly and pulling it away._

 _"You're not the first female to be enraptured by this stupid hair." he muttered at her._

 _"Careful there, that's my daughter you're talking about." He turned around to face Mary who was sitting casually on the further arm of the sofa. "You're a natural at this, you know?" she continued, standing up. "Is this the first time you're holding her?" Sherlock nodded in affirmation and couldn't fight the smile when she complimented him on his baby-caring techniques. "Soon I can just use you as night-shift babysitter."_

 _His smile fell. Mary laughed. "Don't worry, Sher. I'm only joking."_

 _"You make a better comedian and spy." he commented dryly before moving back to his desk. He heard her come up behind him as he sat down. She efficiently burped the baby and left to set her down in the crib before returning. Sherlock felt pressure on his shoulders from her hands. She bent down and placed a kiss on top of his curls._

 _"Thank you, Sherlock. You make for a good godfather." she said, before straightening and walking away. "By the way," she called out "the curls_ is _the only sex appeal surrounding you."_

 _Sherlock chuckled and went back to work._

He brought out the fluffy bear, now slightly dull in colour from age and handed it over to Molly. "It helps her with her eating. I know she doesn't hold onto the teat well, and it's less noisy than the rattle." Molly hesitated "Just take it- you know you don't have to say it was from me." With a wordless nod, she took the toy and placed it beside her.  
"I hate that you can't see her. I'm sorry." Molly offered. He smirked.

"Not your fault."

"I know. It's sympathy, Sherlock. God knows you can use it sometimes."

He watched her closely, noting her tenseness and the furrow in her brows. She was stressed about something- not concerning him, but something she was fighting on wether to tell him by the shifty gaze. _She's probably found out_ , he figured.

"I'm leaving." he announced, watching as her eyes flew back up to his in surprise and horror "Not for long this time and not forever, I assure you." her shoulders sagged in relief from the answer to her unasked question. The detective inwardly smiled at the constant raw sentimentality the pathologist showed for him.

"Where to?"

"I can't say. It's for a case." Again, her head tilted ever so slightly. She locked eyes with his and he could see she knew what sort of case this was. "I'd better get going, still have a few things to get sorted before I go."

"When do u-"

"Tonight." he said, standing up. He watched the dejection and following mask form over her face. She was slowly getting much better at covering up her plain emotion. She echoed his movement, then silently led him back to the door.

"What do you need?" she asked quietly, locking her gaze intently on his. Always putting others needs first. _So Molly_ , Mary would've noted.

"Keep and eye on John and Rosie while I'm gone, and keep me up to date on it."  
"You'll be contactable?" she asked, even more relief flooding into her eyes.

"Of course, just not through direct texts, please- international bills are undeniably evil nowadays." Molly giggled and shook her head. Her face grew solemn then.

"Be safe, Sherlock. Come back soon, and alive in one piece." she said sternly, jabbing him lightly in the chest with a pointer finger. He gazed at her, noting the way her brown hair- now a darker shade and tinged with reddish highlights- framed her rosy cheeks. A flyaway strand tucked itself into the corner her mouth.

Without much thought, her leaned down and pressed his lips hard against hers, snaking his hands around her waist. Palms against her back he pressed her against his own body so that he could feel her soft warmth against him. After a moment, her hands wound their way up his waist and against his chest. He pulled away suddenly, capturing her closed eyes and swollen lips before her eyelashes fluttered and her chocolate eyes open. Lips parted in question, she took a shaky breath. He quietly picked at the strand of hair in her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. It stubbornly fell back over her cheek.

"The new hair colour suits you more." he said, untangling the both of them "Keep some extra fingers for me please- pinkies especially. I'll be needing them when I'm back."

With that, he readjusted his coat and left Molly Hooper's flat.

…

After watching countless more revolutions his ceiling fan made, John threw his legs over the bed and got out of his suddenly stifling room. He filled a cup with water in the kitchen and used his fingers to sprinkle some on his face. He sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. He watched the clock on the wall. 2:50 AM.

It was obvious Molly knew. Maybe she guessed it, maybe she'd read his texts. He sighed again, wondering how he could be so careless. Either way, she now knew about this little secret fling- not affair- he had been having. _Can't be that anymore now_ , he told himself bitterly, now that his wife was nothing more than a pile of ashes buried underground. _And all because of that_ bastard.

How dare Molly bring Sherlock into any of his current decisions in life. Was it so hard for everyone to understand that he didn't want to ever _think_ about the living reason why his wife was death? He was stupid, so, so, so stupid for ever allowing any of them back into his life. If he'd just beaten his rotten face to a pulp and left it as that when he'd first come back from the dead, Mary would _still be alive_.

 _Would you have really wanted that?_ He looked around the room, eyes wide and bloodshot.

"Mary?" he called to the empty room. A few silent moments later, he collected himself. _Come on old boy, get it together._

 _Would you though?_ the achingly familiar voice murmured, _Would you have given up so much?_

" _He_ killed you." John hissed. His voice echoed through the kitchen.

 _A bullet killed me. I jumped._

"Why? Why did you have to do that?"

 _Why do we do anything shocking for those we love?_

"You loved him? What about me? What about Rosie?"

There was no reply. John let out a frustrated shout. Everything in his life kept falling apart. Years ago, he'd begged his best friend to please just not be dead, and less than five years later, he was hearing his dead wife in his head.

 _"I want a family photo now." Mary insisted from the hospital bed. Little Rosie cooed in her sleep, having just been fed._

 _"Are you sure? Mary didn't you say no photos under any circumstances until you look better?"_

 _"Are you saying I look bad, hubby dearest?"_

 _"No no, of course not, I-"  
"Oh just take the bloody photo, John." Sherlock said, untangling his long legs from a too-small hospital chair. "Women love to change their minds- it's part of their _charm _." The detective smirked. Mary stuck her tongue out at the detective, still cradling the child._ _John took out his phone, unlocking it and turned on the camera. Sherlock laid out his hand, gesturing for the device._

 _"No way you're taking the picture, Sherlock." Mary said indignantly._

 _"Why not? I promise to take the actual photo this time and not play with the zoom or anything."_

 _"Besides that, you're going to be in the photo, of course!"_

 _John chuckled as Sherlock spluttered, speechless for once. "I'm not having it any other way." she said, pressing the call button for a nurse._

 _"You know how women are, don you?" John grinned, handing the phone over to the nurse "Hurry up and get into the shot." he said, pushing the detective around to the other side of the bed._

John's finger hovered over the little trash icon on his phone, thumb quivering. Shutting his eyes, he placed the phone on the kitchen table harder than necessary, the thud resounding. Rosie made a coo over the baby monitor.

As he was about to attend to his child in the next room, his phone beeped; John was on it in seconds.

 _Awake? A vamps looking for blood. E Xx_

John chuckled quietly. Rosie made a louder, more distressed sound. "Coming honey," he called lovingly to his daughter, thumbing a quick response, as he made his way to his baby's room. Currently, _she_ was the best thing in his life.

…

Sherlock sat expectantly across the table, his knee bouncing in anticipation. Sitting back languidly in his chair, Mycroft opened a drawer in his desk and retrieved the relevant items.

"Ticket, cash and keys for the bike. Are you in need of anything else?"

"No that should be all." the younger brother said bluntly before scraping the chair back. Mycroft closed his eyes- he knew how much he detested that sound.

"All this for that woman, Sherlock. Like I said, you and sentimentality are more or less synonymous."

"She's a friend, Mycroft- not that you'd know."

"Or are you just trying to curry favour for the widowed husband. We all know what the tabloids say." At the murderous glare he received in return, Mycroft raised his hands in surrender "That was below the belt. I was merely trying to infer you were just more like me than you'd care to admit. Poorly worded, my apologies." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You'll continue keeping tabs on John and the child?"

"Yes of course-"  
"And what of-"

"That new woman is being closely monitored. Ms Elizabeth Woodley is her name."  
"Molly knows about her- didn't seem to want to share that news with me."

"Yes that would most likely be because she's found out that this little flame was ignited some time ago. About three and a half months to be exact."

Mycroft sighed at Sherlock's visible array of emotions- shock, anger, hatred, disappointment, confusion. "Yes I was quite surprised myself. I just thought it'd be better to tell you than have you find out on your own, some other way." The government official cocked his head, waiting for a response that never came. The weight of the implications of Mycroft's findings affected the detective as much as the elder expected it to. His baby brother's gaze remained fixated on a spot on the desk. "Are you quite alright, brother mine?"

"Yes of course." the detective snapped. Mycroft inwardly sighed. There were times he envied his brother and his newfound sentiment, and other, like this time, when he really did not. However, speaking off, Mycroft's mind reminded him of the call he'd made a few days ago, and it's outcome. He debated speaking to Sherlock of it, of their brother. Now wasn't the time, it seemed. It was then he noticed Sherlock's gaze was now intent on him, eyes squinted. He was already catching on.

"It's best you go- you have a flight to catch. Do call, if and when you need any assistance." Sherlock snorted at the offer, at which Mycroft gave a wry smile.

"Make sure to keep surveillance and all of them," Sherlock said, getting up and walking towards the door "and do try not to burn down a country while I'm gone."

"Sherlock," Mycroft called as an afterthought. The man in question turned around expectantly, annoyance written on his face "how _are_ you?" The man sniggered.

"You're might to ask that at the start of conversations. I know you're socially inept-"  
"Coming from you, brother dear. After all, it's been, what- 38 days since Mary Watson's death? I merely want to see how you're coping."

"Just fine, _Mycroft._ " Sherlock sneered childishly "Take care with the diet- you've put on a kilo and a half already."

As the door shut behind the detective, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, chin steepled under his fingers. He worried for his baby brother, especially considering the current conflict between him and Dr Watson. In the case of Watson, that woman he was having an affair with- incredibly unbecoming, Mycroft thought, as he did always had an admiration for Mary Watson- needed to be closely watched. There was something about her. Amidst all the storms currently brewing and raging in Mycroft's life and line and work, he could feel another one rising. Opening another drawer, her retrieved a chocolate bar. _To hell with the diet_ , he thought. His brother was too stressful for a no-sugar week.

 **Hello everyone- it's been a long while! Life has been an absolute hectic mess, but let's not even go there. The Six Thatchers actually ripped my heart out for more reasons than one, mostly due to John being an absolute arse, and as a viewer it's plain as day this is Elizabeth lady is up to no good, but that's Moffat and Gattis for you. After watching that episode, i just had to do something to vent, and this is it I guess.**

 **On a side note, Martin Freeman's silver fox look is a sight to see ;)**

 **Type a little thought in the little box, or a PM, as always, to tell me what you think!**

 **Thanks guys!**

 **-Ash :)**


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